The Craven - An Adaptation of Poe’s The Raven to Fit Modern Times
Following a campaign dreary, voters pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a wild and curious volume of absurdist lore----
Congress nodded, nearly napping, when at once there came a tapping,
As of someone fiercely rapping, rapping at our chamber doors.
“Tis our own voters,” I muttered, “tapping at our chamber door –
Only this and nothing more.”
Memories that I will carry of that dark bleak January
How each separate riot member brought its madness to the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; as their actions brought us sorrow
From our halls surcease of morals – morals of our wondrous land—
For the crazed and riotous throng pretended they were grand and just
Filled they were with Trumpist lust.
And the crackling, harsh, uncertain break of window, rip of curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;--
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so harshly you came rapping,
And so roughly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I knew for sure I heard you” – here I opened wide the door;--
Madness there and nothing more.
Doubting, dreaming dreams of gaining right-wing dominance and sway
And the madness was unbroken, and the shouting gave its token,
And the loudest words there spoken were of Trump Forevermore!
As they shouted, and an echo bellowed Trump Forevermore!
Then this boisterous crowd beguiling my scared fancy into smiling,
By the riotous devotion of the countenance it wore,
“Though they disrupt with all their ravin’, they” I said, “art surely savin’,
Myself, beloved self - my seat upon the Congress Chamber floor.”
Thanks be this mob, although unruly, can save the seat of yours truly
And I shall rule “Forevermore.”
And the Craven, never flitting, still are sitting, still are sitting
On the pallid claims of fraud swirling round the chamber floor;
And their eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming
And the lamp-light o’er them streaming throws their shadow on the floor;
And their souls from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be despised – forevermore!
